Princes Gate Read Online Free PDF Page A

Sisson’s report, promised for the day before.
    “I’ve put another call in this morning, sir, but Venables said the doctor had been called out to a road accident in Richmond and that his assistant had no news.”
    Merlin slammed his right hand down on the desk a little harder than he’d intended and winced. “What the hell does he think he’s playing at? Idiota!”
    Bridges, acknowledging one of the few Spanish pejoratives of his boss which he understood, shook his head sadly and sucked in his breath.
    “Did you ask Venables whether he had anything to add to his own completely unenlightening report?”
    “He doesn’t.”
    “Huh! Any interesting missing person reports?”
    “Nothing that really matches in yesterday’s batch but I’m expecting last night’s reports to be sent to me in the next hour.”
    “And what about that boat?”
    “I’m working on it.”
    “Very well. Be sure to chase that police doctor during the morning, won’t you?” He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “Now perhaps you can ask Peter Johnson and Verey to come up and update me on their cases. Oh, and Sergeant?”
    “Sir?”
    “Could you have a look in the medicine box and see if there’s anything in there for my headache?”

    Arthur Norton straightened his bow tie and applied the last touches of oil to his hair. Wearing his new Savile Row evening wear, he preened in front of the full-length Venetian mirror in his entrance hall. To the casual observer, Norton’s features might appear acceptably regular, though a little spoiled by a weak chin and a puffiness which bore witness to the liveliness of his social life. To Arthur Norton, however, the face which stared back at him was one of which he was inordinately proud. His looks, he thought, especially with the recent addition of a little dignified salt and pepper in his hair, were even improving with age. He wondered briefly whether now was the time to remove the moustache which he had added to complement the portrait a year or so ago. “No,” he murmured, remembering the young debutante who had commented favourably on it the other night. His figure wasn’t so bad either, though his waistline had expanded a little since his arrival in England.
    He stepped into the living room and poured himself a large Scotch. He still felt the need for a little Dutch courage before entering the social fray. So unlike his friend and patron, the Ambassador, who had for many years maintained a fantastically complicated private life against a background of expanding family obligations and buccaneering business dealings, yet had little need for alcoholic stimulation. Norton didn’t think he’d ever seen the Ambassador take more than one alcoholic drink in an evening of entertainment, and more often than not he’d seen him drinking only water or a soda. Women were Joe Kennedy’s alcohol, and he didn’t need the hard stuff to put lead in his pencil.
    Norton stepped into the pitch-black Mayfair street below his flat and set out on the short walk to his evening’s destination. It was twenty-to-eight and he was due on the hour. As he walked around the corner into Hill Street, he heard steps. He had forgotten his torch and swore at himself. He hurried across the road. Street attacks had multiplied tenfold since the introduction of the blackout. The steps behind him picked up their pace and he began to run.
    “Mr Norton!”
    Norton recognised the voice and stopped.
    “It’s me, sir.”
    Norton caught his breath and turned to face his pursuer.
    “Goddam it, what do you want? I’m in danger of being late for a very important dinner.”
    Not for the first time, Johnny Morgan sniggered to himself at Norton’s strange way of speaking. ‘New England Lockjaw’, he heard someone call it when discussing the Ambassador. For some reason the Ambassador’s version of the accent was much easier on the ear than Norton’s braying nasal twang.
    “Come on Morgan, spit it out or get on your horse. I have